“Dispatch, this is 2-L-17. We’ve got blood and a body. No signs of movement inside. Beginning room-by-room clearance.”
“Copy that, 2-L-17,” Dispatch answers, her voice sharp, urgency bleeding through the static.
My gut twists, but training keeps me moving. Every detail registers. Every sound, or lack of it. The creak of the floor under our boots is the only thing breaking the silence.
We clear the kitchen first. It’s empty, nothing but dirty dishes stacked haphazardly in the sink and an overflowing trash can—normal things in an abnormal scene.
“Hallway,” I whisper, jerking my chin toward the shadowed stretch ahead.
Kline nods, his shoulder brushing mine briefly before we fan out.
The hallway yawns long and narrow, dim as a tunnel. A closet door hangs wide open, stuffed with a fake Christmas tree shoved into its box and a couple of cheap jackets dangling on wire hangers.
Two other doors wait at the far end of the hall. One is sealed shut. The other is slightly ajar, slivers of red and blue light filtering through from my unit’s strobes outside.
My mouth goes dry. I nod for Kline to take the one on the right while I advance toward the open door.
Blood streaks around the knob, and my pulse climbs higher.
I raise my gun, draw a steady breath, and nudge the door open with my boot.
“Clear,” Kline calls from the other room as I cross the bedroom, towards the partially open closet. Keeping my gun trained, I shove the closet door open the rest of the way in one quick motion.
A hiss erupts from the shadows, sharp and furious, as a calico cat launches itself forward. My heart jerks into my throat.
“Shit!” I bark, stumbling back a half step as the cat bolts past me, claws skittering across the floor before it disappears under the bed.
“Perez!” Kline yells, bursting into the room.
I suck in a breath, steadying. “I’m good, Kline. Just a damn cat. We’re all clear.”
But my eyes are already dragging toward the window.
The purple curtains we’d seen from outside flutter faintly in the night breeze. Blood smears stain the white sill. Whoever was here, whoever murdered the occupant of this apartment, was no longer here.
I holster my weapon and press the mic again. “Dispatch, scene is clear. We’ll need CSU. Notify a supervisor and a detective.”
“Copy 2-L-17,” Dispatch replies.
Kline and I step back toward the living room. The body waits, the pool of blood expanding slowly across the floorboards. My hands move on autopilot, tugging a pair of nylon gloves from my pocket and snapping them on.
I crouch low, the smell of copper sharper this close, and brush sticky blonde hair away from the victim’s face. Her features are pale, blood streaking down across skin that’s far too young to be this lifeless. The pale blue tank top she wears is shredded, dozens of ragged punctures punched through the fabric, each one evidence of sharp force trauma. Too many to count at a glance. Rage simmers low in my chest.
Then recognition hits me like a bullet. I had only met her once, but I don’t forget a face easily.
I stagger to my feet, ripping the gloves off, my throat dry and tight. “No.” The word escapes me in a rasp, then again, harder. “Oh no.”
Kline frowns, crouching to see for himself. “What is it?”
My fists clench so tight the gloves squeak in my grip. I wanted nothing more than to storm out of here, to release this anger out on something, to go to Raelynn because—god—she needs to know, but I can’t. I can’t leave until a detective takes over, and then there’s the damn paperwork.
I force the words out between clenched teeth, jerking my chin toward the body. “Take a look for yourself.”
Kline leans closer, squinting in the dim light. After a beat, he exhales heavily and slowly, rising back to his full height. His face says it before his words do.
“It’s Khloe,” he confirms.
The sound of her name rattles inside my skull, louder than the hum of the strobes outside. I want to drive my fist straight through the blood-painted wall. Instead, I stand frozen, rage and heartbreak burning in equal measure.
